


Most Grievous

by dragonsong (NekoAisu)



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Angst, Final Fantasy XIV: Heavensward, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, I guess???, Lord Commander Zephirin de Valhourdin (Final Fantasy XIV), M/M, Major Character Injury, Pining, Stabbing, can be read as platonic or romantic, if i cant have it in canon i will make it myself, mutual trust and respect, rarepair hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:22:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24101290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NekoAisu/pseuds/dragonsong
Summary: Ser Zephirin de Valhourdin is distinctive in stature and good in deed. He takes sacrament every week without fail and is rarely late for mass (and of those exceptions, it is only ever due to the benign influence of one Ser Aymeric de Borel), a tried and true devotee to Halone’s wisdom.He is also a killjoy.
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel & Zephirin de Valhourdin, Aymeric de Borel/Zephirin de Valhourdin
Comments: 6
Kudos: 17





	Most Grievous

**Author's Note:**

> Giveaway comm for whittertwitter @ tumblr  
> Thank you for your support!!

If there was a list put together with complaints compiled from those of the Temple Knights’ order, the very first and most grievous of them all would be how painfully chivalrous their Lord Commander is. Ser Zephirin de Valhourdin is distinctive in stature and good in deed. He takes sacrament every week without fail and is rarely late for mass (and of those exceptions, it is only ever due to the benign influence of one Ser Aymeric de Borel), a tried and true devotee to Halone’s wisdom. He is also a killjoy.

“Come drink with us,” recruits call after being put through drills until they feel like hell warmed over.

“My thanks for the invitation, but I will have to decline,” he replies without fail.

Ser Aymeric is always at his arm, at his back, barely even far enough to count as being around the corner. They are nearly inseparable to the point of annoyance. The only times Aymeric is not seen near are those when the Azure Dragoon is within Ishgard─though those instances are few and far between. The one holding that mantle is not wont to associate with his fellows more than necessary─and then it is more a matter of finding _either_ of them. There is quite a bit of speculation as to their relationship and how it came to be (the adopted bastard of House Borel and the outsider turned Azure Dragoon are quite the strange pair of misfits). If there was a force that could shake their immovable Lord Commander, it would be Aymeric. Of course, considering how firmly Zephirin stands within his circle of absolute morality, what influence Aymeric may have ends up squandered on attempts to take his friend and comrade out for drinks.

Despite his lack of social life and general disdain for drinking in public, Zephirin does not abstain from spirits when in private. There is a small but notable cabinet to the side of his study that contains a sophisticated collection of wine (and at least three smaller bottles full to the brim with whiskey) where he spends late nights refilling his glass instead of signing off on petitions. It is on one of these nights that Aymeric lets himself in without warning or preamble to see Zephirin taking a drink straight from a bottle of Gibrillont’s spiced wine. He would worry if there was not a more pressing development. Namely, the attempt on his life currently making him wonder if breathing is truly wise.

Aymeric is decently sure he makes quite the picture, walking into the Congregation of Knights Most Heavenly with a knife buried up to the hilt in his chest. Well, walking seems a stretch. It’s closer to shuffling than anything else. His stomach is roiling something fierce when Zephirin looks over at him and has to blink. He is _definitely_ sauced. The realization makes Aymeric laugh and immediately regret making _any_ sort of noise. He has yet to pull the knife out to prevent severe blood loss, but he had still forced himself to mind-over-matter his way to the Congregation─the type of decision that sees his adrenaline wearing off and the pain intensifying as his nerves begin to fire as they should.

Zephirin puts down his wine and makes a very soft and nearly _wounded_ noise (that is Aymeric’s job, thank you very much) when he notices the worn handle held carefully in place by Aymeric’s blood-slickened grip. He hurries to his side with uncharacteristic emotion, places a hand on his shoulder, and says, “Aymeric, good ser, please tell me I am simply drunk off my arse and you are not, in fact, bleeding onto my carpet.” 

Aymeric looks down and ah. Oh. The world is spinning a worrying amount and Zephirin’s carpet is the absolute _last_ of his worries when it feels like his heart has dropped from being a one-man percussion ensemble to a sluggish _thump… thump… thump…_ that likely should not be so slow. He would like to lay down promptly and without care for whether or not he will be collapsing onto a cot or the chill stone of Zephirin’s office.

_“Impure bastard,”_ he had been called right as the knife was pushed between his ribs. Aymeric knows of his lineage. He does not need any reminders.

But not all those who revere the Lord Commander feel inclined to simply let him stew in his lack of pedigree. He was born from sin, a blight upon House Borel’s good name, and yet Zephirin had crossed swords with him time and time again until they began meeting for strategy and prayer instead of simple combat. Looking at Zephirin now, Aymeric worries he may not have been a good enough friend if someone would see him dead over it. The hands at his back are steady as they help him sit. His heartbeat pounds ever louder in his ears.

There is an apology sitting on his lips when Zephirin yells something out the still-open door, but it sticks like cough syrup and he swallows it down instead. This is not something that requires such care. He will survive, given a curative and a few weeks’ worth of soothing tonics. The guilt of requiring such care weighs on him and makes his tongue heavy. Though, it could also be the blood loss. His head hurts terribly and his eyes do not quite focus. There is a haze that makes Zephirin’s face seem far away, hair a golden halo when backlit by the hearth, and when he closes his eyes to blink, opening them is… so _difficult._ So terribly difficult Aymeric wonders why he tried at all. 

A hand smooths though his hair and there are so many things he should be feeling (should be _doing)_ that filter through slowly instead. Zephirin is speaking to him and it nearly sounds like tongues. His head is full of cotton and he feels heavy, like he has been falling backwards for the longest time and suddenly has found rest. He feels someone remove the knife as if his body is reacting to its absence instead of the slide of sharp metal where it should never be.

He might be dying. Just a little. Or maybe a lot. It has been a while since his last grievous injury.

The heaviness of his body is not all too far off from that of the one that precedes sleep. Aymeric wonders if he can simply sleep it off (he knows better than that, but by _Halone_ does he crave rest). There is someone talking to him. Maybe Zephirin, maybe someone else. All he catches before slipping under is a surprisingly soft call of, _“May the Fury guide you, my friend.”_

**Author's Note:**

> [YELLS FROM THE ROOFTOPS] IF I CAN'T FIND WHAT I WANT, I WILL MAKE IT MYSELF
> 
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